


searchlights in december

by statusquo_ergo



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: 8x13 alternate ending, Angst, Gen, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-26 09:49:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17743625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statusquo_ergo/pseuds/statusquo_ergo
Summary: “Miss you, buddy.”





	searchlights in december

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Harvey's phone call to Mike at the end of “The Greater Good” (s08e13).

One month in, Harvey settles in on his living room sofa with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his tie hanging loose around his neck, a grin on his face and his phone pressed to his ear.

The phone rings three, four, five times. Harvey drapes his free arm over the back of the sofa and stares off into the distance, blurry lights out the window, breathing in the mellow oaken scent of Scotch that’s long since sunk into the slick leather furniture and the soft rug underneath the coffee table.

“This is Mike Ross, leave a message.”

It’s not that he really expected Mike to answer; it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility, but honestly, truthfully, Harvey doesn’t know what he would have said if Mike had picked up and tried to have a conversation. “What’s up?” he might have asked, “How are things,” “Did you want to talk about something,” and Harvey would have said…

“Hi,” he would have said. That’s all, just…hi.

This is Mike Ross’s answering machine. Leave a message.

“Have I got a story for you,” he says, his smile wide and bright and creasing lines in his cheeks. “The story of the time I single-handedly won a fair working wage and overtime pay for our entire building’s maintenance staff. Looks like you didn’t take all the firm’s goodwill toward our fellow man with you out west; I know you’re probably busy with your new firm and everything, but give me a call and I’ll tell you all about it. So, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

Harvey ends the call and tries not to feel like he’s being punished for anything.

\---

Nine times out of ten, if a call comes from a number Harvey doesn’t know, he doesn’t bother picking up.

Most of the time, it’s telemarketers, scammers and the like; sometimes it’s a new business opportunity, a potential client, but he’s always a little suspicious of people who don’t come with references. They usually aren’t worth the time it takes to delete whatever message they’ve left, and he forgets about them by the next morning.

Every once in awhile, though, not very often but once in a blue moon, he listens to the message five six seven hours later, and wishes he’d picked up.

“Hey, Harvey! Hey, I’m really sorry, I could’ve sworn I emailed you about this like a week ago, but I, I guess not, but I’m in the city! Right now! Ah… Dammit, I got a meeting, they’re giving me _the look,_ and I’m on a red-eye back to Seattle tonight, leaving pretty much right after midnight so I’ll have to be at the airport at like, eleven, but if you have a couple minutes this afternoon, I’ll be in midtown, we could hook up somewhere, or I’m having dinner with these guys at Del Posto at eight, you could totally swing by— Shit, shit, they’re gonna start without me, but gimme a call, okay? Talk to you later!”

The recording ends, and Harvey thumbs the number nine; a reflex, force of habit.

“This message will be saved for, thirty, days.”

It’s the little things he keeps to carry him through the fog.

\---

Harvey doesn’t remember how many months have passed anymore.

He could figure it out easily enough; pinpoint the date of Mike and Rachel’s departure and work down the calendar to, well, today, but it doesn’t really matter, when it comes right down to it. It’s been too long, is the point. But he’s spoiled in his friendship with Mike, the kind where they can go days, weeks, months without speaking and pick right back up where they left off; it makes him lazy, makes him soft. Makes him take things for granted that he really shouldn’t.

Lounging in his leather club chair, backlit by the glowing milieu of the apathetic city skyline, Harvey balances his phone in one hand and his Scotch in the other.

This whole mess with Fox is really all just fallout from the case for the maintenance crew; Mike deserves to know about it, the second act of that saga Harvey was so eager to tell him about way back whenever. He’ll be interested, he’ll want to hear about Donna promising Harvey’s services away without his permission. He’ll want to know that Fox concealed his motivations from Harvey until the last second to keep from looking weak, he’ll want to know that Fox’s weakness was really just his desire to protect an old mentor, an effort to do a favor for a guy who was kind to him back in the day when he needed it most.

Harvey holds his phone in the flat of his palm and taps his thumb diffidently against the case.

Mike probably has bigger things to worry about these days.

The phone slips out of his hand onto the coffee table, and Harvey takes a shallow sip of Scotch and looks into the empty fireplace.

This isn’t even that great of a story.

There’ll be others.

\---

Harvey doesn’t check his email as often as he should.

There’s a reason for it, and a pretty obvious one at that: Just about anyone can find his address if they’re savvy enough, or figure it out—HSpecter@zslww.com, it isn’t particularly clever—and once the message is in his inbox, he can ignore it all he wants, but that doesn’t make it go away. He can delete it, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t see it in the first place. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t know. Besides, any lawyer worth his salt knows not to leave such an obvious paper trail; if someone has something to tell him, they can damn well say it to his face, or at least leave a message with his secretary.

Every once in awhile, though. Every once in awhile, he remembers why it’s worth his time.

Four months ago, buried on page fifteen, message—what is it, message seven hundred and two out of way too many to count.

Four months ago, Mike Ross said hi.

“Hey man!” the email reads. “Sorry I missed your call! Things have been crazy around here, you would not believe how much work there is to do.”

Yes, Harvey thinks with a knowing little smile, he probably would.

“Everybody here is still so passionate, it’s great, but I’m pretty sure I’ve broken your hundred-hours-a-day record without even trying. You got any tips for me, man, ‘cause coffee and Red Bull only gets a guy so far, you know how it is.”

Yes, Harvey thinks as a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth, he supposes he does.

“Forsyth’s been sending me to schmooze donors like crazy all this month, it’s insane. Takes me right back to the good old days of casino cocktail parties and black tie galas. Remind me to thank you for all the prep next time we connect.”

Next time, Harvey thinks.

“We gotta catch up!”

Harvey nods to himself as he thinks about how to begin his reply.

Next time.

\---

A little popup in the corner of Harvey’s laptop screen reminds him what today is.

The one-year anniversary snuck up on them quietly, without warning, without giving notice. Well, it snuck up on him, anyway; Donna probably knew. Maybe Robert sent out a present. Overnight, to make sure it arrived at just the right time.

He’ll forgive himself for forgetting. That’s why the reminder is in his calendar in the first place, isn’t it? Just in case.

Forgetting. What a load of shit. Willful ignorance, maybe someone’ll buy that if he tries to sell it.

Clicking the little X in the corner of the little popup, Harvey picks up his phone and speed dials Mike’s number without much care for the fact that in Seattle, it’s only a little after five.

“This is Mike Ross, leave a message.”

He’s prepared this time. He oughta be; he’s heard it enough. Sometimes just in his head, but he’s heard it enough.

“Hey Mike,” he says, “it’s me. I figured someone oughta congratulate you on your anniversary; one whole year, who would’ve thought. But you made it, huh? One year in and still going strong.”

He laughs quietly, so quietly that he isn’t sure it makes it all the way down the line, but Mike will be able to read the pause. He’ll know the sound that fits between the words.

“So I’m in the middle of a pretty weird case right now,” he says. “Very heavy on the nostalgia factor. I think it’s all gonna wrap up pretty soon, and when it does, I’ll give you the full rundown. But in the meantime, here’s a headline for you: Teddy Doyle and Stu Buzzini. Alright, so I’ll…talk to you later.”

Even after all this time, the memories don’t really fade.

\---

Nine times out of ten, if a call comes from a number Harvey doesn’t know, he doesn’t bother picking up.

Sometimes, though, the reflex sneaks up on him, takes him by surprise. Sometimes, he doesn’t know any better. Sometimes, he’s glad he did.

“Is this Harvey Specter?”

Sometimes.

“Sir, I’m calling from University of Washington Medical Center, I have here that you’re an emergency contact for a Mister Michael Ross?”

Sometimes.

One out of ten.

\---

Harvey goes about his day as usual. It can’t affect him if he doesn’t know. It isn’t real if he doesn’t believe. What’s he supposed to do, anyway? Nothing, that’s what, so leave it alone.

Robert hints that he should take the afternoon off, go home early, and Harvey smirks and says something generic about keeping his place at the top of the corporate ladder, and Robert leaves him alone after that. Donna doesn’t say anything at all, and he isn’t sure if it’s on purpose or by accident, and it doesn’t make a difference either way because they’ll be talking about this later, once she decides she knows what’s best for him.

At five o’clock, Harvey shuts down his computer, packs his bag and leaves his desk, his office, gets in the car and rides away. Ray doesn’t say anything, being that there’s nothing that needs saying, and Harvey gets out of the car in front of his apartment building and rides the elevator up to the penthouse in silence.

Soup and salad for one. A Scotch on the rocks.

He’ll call every hospital in Seattle, is what he’ll do. He’ll call the police. The fire department. The insurance company. He’ll call everyone.

At ten thirty, sitting in front of a roaring fire, Harvey types Rachel’s number, cradling the phone to his ear and staring off into flickering space.

The phone rings one, two, three times. Harvey rests his elbow on his knee and inhales the smokey air, the warmth and the filth of it, and listens to the static.

She swallows, speaking through sandpaper and molasses.

“Harvey.”

Yes.

He nods slowly, a quiet sort of understanding.

Yes. I see.

He hangs up in silence, clasping his phone between his hands and pressing the edge of it to his chin.

At ten thirty-five, listening to the simmers and whip-cracks of a roaring fire, Harvey lunges to his feet and throws his phone as hard as he can against the windowpane.

\---

The Teddy Doyle and Stu Buzzini case does wrap up soon. The end of that very week, in fact, only two days after the clouds stop moving across the sky, the tide breaks its pattern of ins and outs and gravity may or may not still be a factor for consideration. Sweeping into Cahill’s office like a goddamn movie star, Danny Ocean pulling off his latest heist, Harvey rattles off his do-or-die to Nick Pavonotti, preening and puffing out his chest at another stupid, risky plan that never should’ve worked but somehow did. Pavonotti sinks back into the shadows and Cahill swears that Harvey's a dead man if he crosses him again, and they part with an amiable concordance, as gentlemen do.

Walking out the front door onto the street, Harvey blinks up at his surroundings and sticks his hands into his pockets, throwing his shoulders back on a long sigh. This was a tough one, and he should be proud of himself. A lot of pieces had to fall into place in just the right ways, and it could’ve turned out a lot worse.

It didn’t, though.

Harvey smiles up at his surroundings, the glowing streetlights and the shuttered storefronts, and slides into the backseat of his car for the ride home. To the elevator, the ride up to the penthouse in silence.

It could’ve, but it didn’t.

Harvey sits in one of the black leather club chairs. Pulls out his cell phone and looks down at the cracked screen, a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“This is Mike Ross, leave a message.”

The little things are always the ones that people forget about. In fact, no one will get to this, it’ll sit there, continuing to be forgotten, until too many unpaid bills pile up and the phone company commits to destroying the credit of a dead man.

For now, though, there’s this.

“Hey Mike,” Harvey says, “it’s me.”

Mike will know. Even after all this time, all these dropped calls and missed messages. He’ll know.

“I got a hell of a story to tell you.”

Will you listen? If I talk, will you hear me?

“It involves Kevin Miller, Stu Buzzini, Sean Cahill, and that trade we made for Teddy Doyle last year.”

Remember? I told you, do you remember what I said? You’ll like this story, you’ll like hearing about what happened. You’ll think it’s funny.

“Gimme a call if you want to hear it.”

It would be nice. I’m not expecting much, but it would be nice, is all.

“Miss you, buddy.”

We tried our best, didn’t we? And that’s all we can do, is try.

Harvey hangs up the call, staring blindly into the empty fireplace, drinking mindlessly from his glass of Scotch.

Play it for me one more time.

\---

“This is Mike Ross, leave a message.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Look, you were giving me shit this morning because I come and go when I want to. You know why I can do that? Because when I got here, I dominated. They thought I worked a hundred hours a day. Now, no matter what time I get in, nobody questions my ability to get the job done. Get it through your head. First impressions last. If you start behind the eight ball, you’ll never get in front.”  
> —Harvey (to Mike), “[Inside Track](https://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=suits&episode=s01e03)” (s01e03)
> 
> “Hey, Mike, it’s me. I got a hell of a story to tell you. It involves Kevin Miller, Stu Buzzini, Sean Cahill, and that trade we made for Teddy Doyle last year. Gimme a call if you want to hear it. Miss you, buddy.”  
> —Harvey, “[The Greater Good](https://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=suits&episode=s08e13)” (s08e13)
> 
> [Del Posto](https://delposto.com/) is a fancy and expensive Italian restaurant in Chelsea.
> 
> Feel free to say hi on [tumblr](https://statusquoergo.tumblr.com).


End file.
